Strangers
by Kimberlee-Watt
Summary: Two children, a boy and a girl, of Harad have to stay in Minas Tirith, a few years after the War of the Ring. They are far from welcome, and they do not love the West, either! As if this is not enough, sinister plots against the West are happening in their homeland. The story could take many directions right now. Bit slow at the beginning, hopefully will improve. Advice welcome.
1. Arrival

The sky might have been a cascade of pink and orange chalk, flecked here and there with red and smeared with violets and blues near the horizon, as sunset settled quietly over Minas Tirith. A soft breeze blew from the north, stirring the fluffy silver specks of cloud. Brighter than the most vibrant tapestry, streaks of indigo shadow mingled with golden sunlight, mingling on the mounds that ran across the Fields of Pelenor, fading to greyish blue where the river flowed in the distance, the silent quays at the bend merely dots in the failing light. Black no longer, the ragged eastern horizon was a dull ochre above green strips that were dusky plains.

Faramir stood up from his tidy desk and peered through the silk curtains of the arched window ahead, rubbing stiffness from his limbs while watching the world as it prepared to sleep. His eyes turned to the south. From here the Emyn Arnen was obscured by the smooth tone frames of the airy chamber, but he could see with his imagination the pale walls and graceful pillars of the mansion, and the golden hair of the beautiful woman who dwelt there. He had to admit, he wished he was home. Steward was a high office, all the more when the king was out fighting wars, and Faramir had never been a man to shy away from duty, even that which he did not like. But he was tired now, and the burden of his position seemed heavier. Shaking off these singing thoughts, which were unbecoming to a noble, he rubbed his aching eyes and stared once again at the letter handed to him not an hour ago. The letters shimmered in the misty orange glow of the steady candle flame. He frowned, pondering not only what these orders said, but what thy might mean for the city in the future.

So Gondor was taking hostages again, to keep the Haradim in line. That had not been done since the a days of King Hyarmendacil, one of the greatest warriors Gondor had ever known, and he had certainly kept the peace. Of course, the Haradrim had become all the more bitter. Still,the King would not make such a decision unless he was quite certain it was right, and Faramir supposed it was not his duty to question the King. But he imagined trouble would come of it.

As near as he understood the situation from a written report, the children's father and most uncles had been slain by the King in battle, and the children captured. No mention was made of a mother. But an uncle had taken the crown of the city state for himself, and through sheer ruthlessness had done no little damage to the forces of Gondor, at least until he had found out what had happened to his nephews. After several savage battles, ten spies interrogated and executed, and finally some negotiation, the king Eelessar had found out that he had planned to marry his niece when she was old enough to bear children to strengthen his claim. The son he had hoped to fashion into a powerful guard, but it was the maiden who mattered the most, for it seemed his claim was not secure without her. There were rumours that he had tainted blood. Faramir knew that even a wild tale without proof could do harm, so he understood why the man would want anything that would strengthen his position.

But that did not matter to the Steward. He had more pressing problems on his mind than vague history.

What was important was that he would shortly be hosting two presumably bitter children who had seen most of their people killed and who would doubtless have been told how cruel the West would be to them. And they would be prisoners. Faramir doubted they would come to harm even if their uncle did break his word, but they would not know that, and he doubted they would find any friends among the people of Minas Tirith. Too much harm had been done. Somewhere on those misty fields below were small hills where the heads of men who had died in Osgiliath, and Faramir remembered that he had come very close to being among that number. The men of Gondor would not hurt them, if they were ordered to let them be, but words could do harm enough. Thinking briefly of his father, Faramir reflected that he knew that too well, too. Did they even speak the common tongue at all?

The sun was now a red sliver of light above the mountains, the river and fields and dotted thatch cottages all lost under the deep purple shadow, and the candle light was bright over the dark wood of his desk. Around him, the white room was draped in gloom. Silk curtains twitched on the high walls to the side, and here and there he could see the glitter of dust upon the table in the middle of the rug upon the stone floor. It was colder now. Lamps burned low beside the door opposite him, misty vermilion light failing to reach the ground, though the streaks of moonlight were becoming brighter around the window sill.

Night was settling, and he still had reports to examine. It would be better to get them seen to before he spent hours meeting people in person, he thought, taking a small cup of wine from the table.

One of the perils of peace, he reflected as he picked up the first of the pile of pages, was men taking safety fore granted, and he found himself reading letter after letter of men pleading for the release of guards either sleeping or drunk on duty. And then there was a watchtower that had not been repaired as well as it should. There were also rumours of enormous sharks still lingering in the Anduin, though most of the corpses which had filled that river years ago had been devoured or washed away by now. And weapons of Mordor were still turning unexpectedly on the Pelenor Fields. It seemed a child had been burned quite seriously while examining one. He put aside the matter of the petty criminals but wrote out warnings for the men working by the docks and those living on the farms, thinking he would spread the word tomorrow. And he must have quarters arranged for the guests.

''Sir.'' A knock from behind him,after a while. ''The little beasts from Harad have arrived.''

''Keep a civil tongue.'' Faramir was vaguely annoyed as he opened the door, though he could see blue rings under the bleary eyes of the man in black robes, his head bowing under the silver helmet. He was also hungry. ''They are to be treated as guests, I warn you, by order of the King.''

''I apologize, sir.'' The man's thin cheeks flushed, long mouth tight, speaking quickly. ''I was not thinking. It seems they were attacked by wolves on the road, so they arrived sooner than expected. One of the horses is hurt, and being tended to, but otherwise no harm was done. They are waiting in the courtyard now, sir.''

''Of course.'' He nodded, walking out into the cold passage and turning down stairs to his left, glancing towards the left side of the citadel. ''Have the chambers been prepared for them?''

''The men are making them comfortable, sir,'' Said the guard. ''It should not take long.''

''Very good.'' He could see lines of dim lamps cowering in the breeze he left behind him as he walked. 'You have permission to go to the stores and bring food for yourself and those with you.''

''Thank you, sir.''

The man departed with a fresh spring in his step and Faramir passed through the long empty corridor, his back to the metal doors of the hall and heading to the sliver of moonlight ahead. Soon he was standing upon the top of flight of steps. Below him the sapling of Nimloth seemed to be drinking the starlight as it danced upon the singing waters of the round pool, and here and there he could see the top of a battlement and stairs to the sides, but the long tunnel across the grass was pitch black beneath the deep grey carving of a bearded face, the eyes and mouth like holes. Faramir thought that any stranger walking through there at this time was bound to be a little frightened.

Sure enough, the girl was shivering. It might have been the chill, for she was clad mostly in red and gold silks, that drifted over her like a blanket, but he could see fear in her wide eyes that peered out from the mask and hear her ragged breath. She was younger than he had imagined, not very much beyond infancy. That a man would even plot marriage, no matter how long he intended to wait, seemed cruel. Maybe the King had been merciful, sending them here.

Her brother was afraid, too, but was better at hiding it. He wore only a smart silver vest and long trousers, and was doing his best to look rough and impressive, his strong chin in the air and chest puffed out. But Faramir could see behind the act. He was a little younger than Beregond's son, though he already had a deep scar across his left cheek and was missing a front tooth, and a fresher wound along his forehead. Faramir remembered they had been close to the lines of battle. He could imagine a boy wanting to see the fighting,there had been those who remained in Minas Tirith for the siege, but why his sister had been with him he had not been told. Maybe he would find out soon enough.

Faramir thought,examining them closely. He could expect no courtesy, and prepared himself for his considerable patience to be strained, but he suspected like all Men they would want food and drink. Better to be more strict than kind for now, though, at least until they understood the city better. There was something in the boy's eyes that made him think of Boromir, and he knew he could not afford to be too indulgent, or they might end up causing serious mischief and demanding their own way. But he did not want to scare them either. He thought about Eowyn, not the first time tonight and not the last, and thought she should meet them in time. It might be good for the girl to meet a woman. She seemed to have been raised in a court of vicious warriors and scheming old men, and some scheming old men who had been vicious warriors in their youth.

''You chambers are nearly prepared.'' He told them, at length,his robe billowing in the gentle but piercing breeze as he stood on the lowest step with his arms folded. Armed guards stood close around the two, not far from the sapling. It was not surprising that their gazes were ever torn towards the bright steel in the hands of the silhouettes of thin men. ''Come with me.''

''Nearly?'' The boy glared, and stumbled as his sister pulled on is shirt, clearly trying to silence him. '' Where I come from, they would be made ready before the command was given.''

''Brother...these people are...going to kill us...''

''Why should we be polite, then?'' He actually stamped his foot on the dewy grass, a childish outburst for a future prince. ''We are their enemies no matter what we say, and they are ours.''

Sound enough reasoning, if wrong. ''You will not come to harm here.''

''Unless our uncle makes trouble.'' The boy scowled, eyes glinting in the moonlit shadows. ''And he will, you can depend on it. He has never been patient. A year or so from now and he will decide enough is enough, who cares about bloodline anyway, I can rule well enough by scaring people into doing what I want. He does that. I think he is more than a little mad.''

''You do not know that for certain.'' But he believed it. Faramir supposed the King Elessar hd taken the man's unpredictable temper into account when he made the decision. ''Maybe you will be safer here than under his care.'' He turned. ''Come.''

They exchanged surprised glances, and followed him inside.


	2. Troubles

''What are your names?'' Faramir let the two children into his fair chamber, allowing them to stand by the tired yellow fire that burned under a stone arch opposite the curtains, and warm their hands. ''In the common tongue?'' 'He could spell their original names, but even with practice he doubted he could say them easily, for their seemed to be many sounds completely foreign to the western tongue. Even knowing something of their speech was little help.

''He Who Kills Foolish Western Men.'' The young prince glowered, rubbing his knuckles.

''Storm.'' The girl glanced at Faramir, lowering her light hood and revealing long braided hair blacker than the coals behind the grate. She spoke well for age, though she had a slight lisp. ''He is Storm, I think, or Whirlwind. My name is Stream, or River.''

''Storm and River will do.'' Faramir strode passed them and gave orders to the bored guard outside to bring food and stools, observing their expressions as they looked around the clean and wide chamber that was mostly decorated with harmonious shades of white and silver. The boy frowned at the intricate images of trees in the hangings. It was very different from the bright, almost gaudy, clothing of the newcomers, making them stand out like candles in darkness. ''You seem to be quite fluent in the common tongue.''

It did not take long for the chairs and food to be brought up from shadowy stores below the Citadel, warmed milk and cakes, a meal received with inevitable ingratitude by the boy.

''Where is the wine?'' He scowled over his folded arms, leaning on the table ''Or do you people only drink slime from cows?'' Snorting and scuffling the caret with his sandals, he added. ''That would not surprise me.''

''You will have warm milk until I say otherwise.'' Faramir told him, sternly, putting as much authority as he might into his voice and bearing as he stood over them. ''I know you do not wish to be in Minas Tirith, but remember, you are not royalty here. You are guests. It is our custom for guests to show some courtesy to the host.''

''Guests! Hostages, more like.'' Storm threw the milk on the floor. ''But I still have my pride! I might die, but I will die a prince!''

Faramir bit his tongue as he examined the youth, deciding not to point out- yet-that with this behaviour he would make a very poor prince indeed, in Harad or Gondor or anywhere else in Middle Earth. He was a spoiled, frightened boy. Nothing less and nothing more. The Steward considered various responses to the boy's outburst, thinking of each carefully.

First. He could simply give him a cup of wine, as he demanded. Faramir had already decided against that, however, for he would surely become more difficult than ever. Frightened he might be, but Storm would always want to have his own way.

Second. A show of authority. Boromir and Denethor would have made this choice. The most obvious way to do this would be have a guard fetch him a stick , or a sword if he wanted to be particularly harsh, and whip him across the backside or legs. It was tempting, certainly.

Looking into the defiant eyes, however, Faramir understood that the boy would only use this as an excuse to hate him.

And it would not work. Faramir was not sure what kind of discipline the boy had known, but he did not seem to be unused to pain, judging by the scars and bruises. Annoyed as the Steward was, he did not want to injure the prince because of a mug of milk, even if it had not been against his orders. Better to show restraint for now.

Besides, Faramir considered as he surveyed them, he had to think of the girl. She might be as spoiled as her sibling, but now she was simply terrified. He did not want to cause her more discomfort.

Third. Let him suffer the consequences of his actions. That seemed to be the best plan.

''Here is a cloth.'' Faramir lifted a rag off the wide oak mantelpiece and went behind the curtains, where he wet it in the small barrel beside the bed, and handed it to Storm. ''You will clean this mess, and if you apologize, you may have water.'' He had to fight the sudden urge to have vinegar brought up in the guise of wine, but that seemed too...immature.

Storm reddened, fists tight around the tablecloth, but seemed too shocked to speak.

''I will clean it , sir.'' River stood and reached out for the cloth, rocking the large table, and knocking over her own mug in her nervousness. ''It is not fitting for a boy, especially a prince to wash the floor.'' Then she screamed as she saw the mess she had made. ''I am sorry!''

''A prince should learn to clean up after himself.'' He frowned at the boy, but he felt pity when he saw the girl trying to wipe the stain with her hands. He gave her the cloth. ''Here. Do not worry. It was an accident.''

''I am a prince!'' The boy rubbed his bloodshot eyes, scowling at the table. ''I command armies! I count coins! Mountains of them! Or I would have if you people had not made such a fuss over a piece of land! It was ours!''

''South Gondor has not belonged to Harad for many years now.'' Said Faramir, sitting opposite him. ''What is more, your father's invasion cost the lives of nearly a hundred men of Gondor.''

''You killed thousands of us.''

''Five hundred, according to my report.'' Though it must have seemed like thousands to the Prince, if his father had been there. They would need to talk about that grief, but not yet. ''But there will be time for debates later. Just remember, we did not make your father try to take back the land.'' He frowned. ''I am curious, why did he do it? The land has no particular value to either of our countries.''

Storm stuck out his tongue.

''Our uncle Obvious.'' River moaned, digging her elbows into her brother. ''No...that is not his name.'' She muttered a few phrases in her own tongue, running through different words, frowning slightly. ''No, Obsidian. He told our father to fight.''

''A lot of them did.'' Storm shrugged, fidgeting with the cloth. ''Í did, too.''

''This is the same uncle who would marry you?'' Faramir looked at River, who shuddered and lowered her eyes, but nodded. ''It sounds as if he wanted your father out of the way,so that he could take the throne. Maybe he killed your father as much as the King did. But what worries me is what he is planning against Gondor.'' He sighed, trying not to worry too much. ''The King will find out, I dare say. He is staying in Harad longer than he meant to, though the Queen should be back within a week.''

''Maybe he does not care about Gondor.'' Snapped Storm. ''You people think the world is all about you.''

Faramir did not bother to answer this. Southrons had always cared about Gondor, in the worst possible way, bitter against kings long dead and years of servitude long passed. He saw River rubbing the carpet as well as the tablecloth, but before he could say anything, there was a knock at the door.

A guard told them that the chambers had been prepared, and Faramir decided to walk with them. He had little better to do right now. In any case, he did not want the Prince Storm quarrelling with the guards.

''I want wine.'' Storm moaned, looking into the cup with almost comical sorrow.

''You did not clean up after yourself.'' Faramir told him, frowning, gesturing for them to go out into the upper passage, which now seemed to be wreathed in ice. ''You will live on bread and water until you learn manners.''

''I will have the same...sir...'' River glanced up at him, keeping close to her brother as they went down the echoing stone steps.

''If you insist.'' It was not fair on the girl, and he knew he would have to make better arrangements. ''Now, you are not prisoners. Tomorrow I will have a guard show you around the city, but you will not be allowed to wander alone. '' He paused. ''My people suffered greatly in the War of the Ring. You will find men who still remember the day they ran over to look at what they thought was a rock thrown by a catapult and found the heads of friends and family, branded with the eye. If you are bitter at the loss of your father, consider their hurt.''

''We never did that.'' River was crying as they went outside, the cold night a monochrome blue, nearly black in the shadows along the earth and sapphire where the misty moonbeams fell, fading to a dull cyan along the tops of the wall. The towers and battlements of the Citadel above him was like a vast ice sculpture that would never melt. Faramir might have enjoyed the almost mystical view, but the children were shivering.

They were led quickly around the back of the fortress, passing niches and hollow windows and then out across a stone court to a small but graceful white house.

More comfortable now than it had been, there were tapestries on the walls and rugs warming the floor, while cushions had been set upon the hard chairs around the table and upon the bench at the back.

But it was not luxurious. The two beds were hidden by curtains in the left corners, and these completed the furniture. Stairs led up to shimmering shadows at the right, dust glittering around the lamps. Of course, the visiting royalty was not impressed.

''Is this a house or a dungeon?'' Storm snorted, to Faramir's lack of surprise. ''Leave us.''

The Steward did leave, but lingered upon the steps outside the door when it was nearly shut, hearing them speaking in their own tongue, thankful the King had asked him to study it not long before setting out to war. It seemed the King Elessar 's foresight was as strong as ever.

Faramir could understand most of their words, when he listened, even if he could not say them.

''You are going to get us killed!''

''They are going to kill us anyway!'' The boy might have been pacing, judging by the odd thump when he hit a chair. ''I am sorry, I cannot protect you. They call us guests, but we are hostages. And hostages die. Sooner or later.'' He seemed to curse. ''But dying I can take.'' There was a slight quiver in his voice that suggested otherwise. ''It is the humiliation I cannot stand. They want to turn us into servants before they kill us!''

''Servants?''

''It is servants who have to be polite! Who have to thank people for a glass of water! Who have to be grateful for lying on a piece of stinking fleece like this mockery of a bed! That is for lower people.''

''Maybe they are poorer than we are.''

''Did you see the King?'' Thump. A chair went flying. ''He was not poor! He was probably richer than our father.''

''So...you expect these people...who hate us...to wait on you?'' At least River was pointing out the serious flaw in his thinking. She sounded puzzled. ''You are not making any sense. We should sleep. Maybe you will feel better in the morning.''

''I wish they would just kill us and get it over with!'' Finally, the pride had broken, leaving only a broken emptiness in Storm's voice, and a moment of silence followed. But then he continued, more strongly. ''If they want to play games with us, I will play games with them. I will not let them mold me. They can kill me if they want to, but I will not lick their feet!''

It might have been an impressive speech, if it were not so misguided.

''What about me?'' Asked the girl, the rustle of blankets nearly drowning her voice. ''I am scared. But I am also scared of Obsidian. I do not want to see him again.''

''You should show more courage.'' The young Southron snorted. ''I cannot believe I have a coward for a sister.''

''I want to be brave like you.'' River sighed, her voice somewhat choked. ''Even mother was disappointed in me. She said even a woman should know how to fight.''

''Maybe you can learn from me.''

Faramir listened more, but after this he could hear only the sounds of the children preparing for bed. Something he should be doing, too. When Queen Arwen returned, he would have more time to look after them.

Eowyn would come to the Citadel tomorrow, and she could meet them then, but he decided to warn her of what to expect would probably benefit from her company. Faramir did not like to think what the little maid would learn from her older brother.

Storm seemed to be as much confused as anything. On one hand, he had been taught that he was all powerful, the centre of a kingdom, and everyone else was little more than a beast. On the other hand, he had also been taught that the West were murderous savages who would kill him for fun. Pride and fear were a dangerous combination. And he had lost his family and his home in a few days.

Put that together, Faramir thought, and there was one unbearably annoying but also pitiable prince.

It was some comfort, though, that Storm seemed to care for her, in his own way.

He should also find children their age, Faramir thought. Not to be alone with them, for that was a a path certain disaster, but maybe the Southrons would not feel so threatened by other children. But most of the young ones of Minas Tirith were of low birth. Storm would almost certainly be cruel to them. Faramir decided to put this plan on hold.

His more pressing concern was how they would react to meeting the Elf Queen. The East loathed her people even more than they did Gondor, and he somehow doubted Storm would be touched by the love and admiration felt by the men of the city when they looked upon the Lady. If anything, he might be worse than ever.

Had the King actually met the children? Faramir started back across the courtyard, the tall slabs of shadow seeming to lean over him, broken every few metres by the steady torchlight that highlighted every grain and shadow in the paving. Had he known what he was sending to Minas Tirith? Faramir supposed he must have, but he could not suppress misgivings.

The Stewards head was pounding as he went up the steps and into the citadel, hot stabs of pain digging into his right temple. Tired though he was, he would probably be awake most of the night. It was a depressing thought.

No. As Captain of the White Tower, he had faced legions of warrior orcs and bloodthirsty Southrons, he had passed under the Shadow of the Nazgul, and he had nearly died from fever. Two unpleasant children would, when they had adjusted, not be such a problem-he hoped.

 **I struggled to think of good Southron names. There is very little said about their language in the Lord of the Rings**. **This was the best idea I could ome up with. Please review!**


	3. Patience

The Fields of Pelenor should have been beautiful. White flowers peered over the gentle hills of lush grass, rising to little knolls where barns and cottages stood, wooden sides dripping with golden sunlight. Fat cattle lowed in pastures and men pushed wagons of hay along narrow dirt roads to and from the city. The mountains in the west might have been smiling down at them.

''Did you hang the prisoners form the roof of the Citadel?''

It was comments like that making what should have been a pleasant ride through the farms into a struggle with her temper, Eowyn thought as she drew her horse to a halt and looked down at Storm. He had been given an old, slow pony. It was a placid chestnut, very obedient, and she wished he had been set upon a fiery horse of Rohan. That would teach him a lesson. Unfortunately, his sister shared the beast with him.

Most of his talk had been a stream of insults about men of Minas Tirith easily losing their heads under stress to wondering if there were more crows than pigeons in Gondor these days. Eowyn was no stranger to talk of death, but Storm was tiring company.

''As far as I know, all the enemy who could not run away were killed on the spot.'' She shrugged. ''But I never saw the end of the battle, I was only told what had happened afterwards. I never heard that your people even tried to surrender, though.'' Deciding to get in an insult of her own, she added. ''Your people outnumbered us three to one, and we still sent you running away.''

''You had poisoned mists that formed the shapes of men and could swallow a man whole, dissolving them into puddles of slime.'' He told her. ''Father told me. He was on the ships, which your King attacked. He barely escaped, and had to walk back. ''

Eowyn wished she had Faramir's gift for telling if people were being truthful. Mists that ate people? It was worse than the men of Gondor's hope that an army of Halflings would ride to battle with the men of Rohan. But maybe their father had been telling stories. Escaping a living, flesh eating was more impressive than being scared away by something one could not see.

''Are there ghosts here?'' River glanced around, seeing a muscular farmer unloading his wagon not far behind them, grimacing under the weight of the bales. ''I would not want to live on a battlefield.''

''I heard your king died falling off a horse.'' Said Storm, as they moved on down the road, and he chuckled. ''Maybe you are not such good riders after all, if the best of you cannot stay in the saddle.''

Faramir had done his best to prepare her for the Prince's venom, but Eowyn was stunned by the flash of rage, and her hand shot out before she was fully aware of what she was doing. Slap! Storm's eyes widened in shock as he was struck across the cheek. Eowyn took a deep breath, resisting the urge to shake him. As far as she was concerned, a whipping might do him good, but she decided to trust her husband's judgement and take a more restrained approach- as much as possible.

''I thought your people liked killing.'' He seemed genuinely surprised. ''And they won, so why should they be sad? I would not grieve for my father if he had died achieving something, rather than being killed like a mad dog.''

''What about the horse?'' Muttered River, sadly. ''I do not like Kings...or soldiers...except father...but I like horses.''

''That is Snowmane's grave.'' Eowyn pointed ahead, and they rode to a mound of bright flowers and long reeds that stood near a patch of blackened sand and pebbles. ''And the burned patch is where they destroyed the carcass of the Black Captain' steed. I was the one who slew it.'' She pointed to the charred skull and long bones. ''And I drove a sword through the Captain's skull.''

'' You can ask anyone in this city.'' Her knuckles twitched, but on reflection,she supposed they had no reason to believe her. ''They will tell you what happened.''

''They would.'' He glared at her, his scanning the sunlit hills and flowers with displeasure. ''All we know is that the Captain was slain. Some of our cavalry was scattered, and one or two made it home. After that, everyone just disappeared.'' Now he shrugged, turning his horse. ''We should leave, or my sister might faint.''

So much for a peaceful ride over the Pelenor Fields.

River dismounted long enough to throw some flowers over the tomb of the horse. It was a curiously touching gesture, highlighting the difference between herself and her brother. Eowyn thought vaguely of Boromir. She had not known Faramir's elder brother well, though he had visited Rohan more than once and been liked there, but he had been quite different to Faramir.

There was a time when Eowyn would have delighted in tales of blood and slaughter, but she had been in a dangerously morbid mind then. It had almost killed her.

Eowyn racked her brains thinking for sights that would not stir their bitterness, but the boy in particular seemed to be searching for reasons to hate the West. If the King gave his people gold and jewels, it would not be enough.

Had the East destroyed Minas Tirith and slaughtered all within, including the women and the lads, Storm would probabaly say that was what happened in war. But thankfully the West had proved stronger. So Storm saw his people as the victims.

''Have you not heard that the women of Rohan fight as well as the men at need?'' She asked at length, thinking about comments that she could not have been in the battle. ''You are no prince, but an ignorant, spoiled little boy. What do you think would have happened to any child of Gondor had they been taken to Harad? Do you think they would have been given food? Allowed to ride? Tell me, what would your father have done?''

The children exchanged glances.

''Tell me!''

''The dungeons.'' Storm murmured, at length, unable to meet her gaze. ''Enough food to live, but no more. No light, no blankets, nothing at all. Beatings, whippings. I think that is what would have happened.''

''Why should we not do the same to you?''

''But you will!'' The fire flared in him once more. ''And even if you do not, we will still die! What does it matter how? Will we have our throats cut in our sleep? Poison-?''

Storm flinched slightly as her hand shot out, but this time she merely brushed dust of her saddle, restraining herself. It was as Faramir had said. Fear and mistrust was at the heart of his behaviour, his almost obsessive belief that the King was out to kill him. Until it could be proven otherwise, Storm would be a nuisance. Eowyn hoped he could be cured of it quickly.

''I want a meal.'' Snapped Storm. ''A big one!''

Eowyn decided to take them to her large house outside the city in the hills of the Emyn Arnen, a white gleam to the south, not even bothering to answer the petty demands. Maybe ignoring him was the answer.

They had drawn near the steps curving up to the veranda when they saw two youths of about thirteen struggling to reign in a feisty grey pony, and Eowyn recognized Bergil.

At ten, when Bergil had been the nameless son of a nameless guard, he had been loud and confident, choosing to remain in Minas Tirith and face the perils of a siege. Now that his father was a captain, and he had gained some fame as being a friend of a renowned halfling, he had developed a healthy opinion of himself. Unlike Storm, though, Bergil respected authority.

''What should I do, Bergil?''A high pitched voice from another boy, further back,watching the situation. ''I will lift you onto my pony...or .should I try to grab the reigns...?''

Huor had been named after a legendary figure of forgotten days, and he did not bear this well. Eowyn could not call him a coward-he had stayed in Minas Tirith, too-but from what she had observed, he was the one always worrying about what would happen if something went wrong. And now, he was beside himself.

''You have permission to ride by yourselves, I assume?'' Eowyn rode over to Bergil and dismounted, grabbing the halter, her grey eyes taking in their red faces, and downcast gazes.

''I don't think he would mind, my lady.''

''I see.'' She knew Faramir had wanted to let the visitors play with other children, and the thought occurred that these two might be suitable. Bergil had a strong will, not easily scared, and Huor was reasonably sensible. She would talk to Faramir about it. For now, she decided on a simpler test, inviting the four of them to eat with her at her home.

They went up the steps and into the house. It was decorated like the Steward's quarters, though there were many flowers on the sills of the high windows and the ale caret was softer. The table in the hall had been set, and the servants were carrying in the hot dishes even as she went through the doors. Steam wafted through the high windows and curled around the pillars.

The first part of the plan was met with an unexpected complication. The children of Gondor had seen her often enough, but had not shared a table with her, and were overcome with nerves. They did not seem to hear Storm's complaints, or for that matter, see the food.

''What do you think of the Steward?'' Eowyn asked,interrupting Storm's mutterings.

''You know that he came close to dying in the war.'' Eowyn told them briefly about the hopeless defence of Osgiliath and the arrow that had sent him to the ground. ''Had the cavalry of Gondor not come at that moment, he would have been cut to pieces right there. A lot of brave men died in that battle. Everyone knew Osgiliath could not be held.''

Storm was frowning.

''I am glad he lived.'' Said River, in a small voice, spoon in her hand. The thought occurred that these children had not heard much about the losses of Gondor. It was strange. She would have thought their father would have boasted about it. ''He has been kind to us. I just wish...it is like with the fog...even normal fog...it still scares me...brother makes fun of me all the time...''

''Did your father tell you about your victories?''

''He did, briefly.'' Storm muttered. ''But mostly he thought about how we had lost. He was sure the West would invade our land,and destroy or enslave us. He said he would rather die than pay tribute. Obsidian made him worse.'' Storm's cheeks flushed, and his eyes brightened with sudden sorrow. ''I think he knew he would die in the battle, and he probably thought we would, too.''

''Brother...!''

''You did not see him when he left the camp.'' It was obvious by Storm's slow, almost forced, speech, that he was saying this with difficulty. ''He was more than a little strange. Drunk, too. He said a lot of strange things. Sometimes he thought he would win, and I would become a man, an other times he was just...''

Mad lords. A heavy burden for any city or nation. Eowyn thought of Theoden, controlled by the slimy Wormtongue,and Denethor who had been driven to despair by Sauron himself. It seemed their father''s tale followed these patterns. In his case,it was at least one scheming brother.

''Just like grandfather.'' River shook her head. ''Only he fought the Easterlings... or was it troll men of Far Harad?''

''Both, at different times.'' Muttered Storm. ''Never liked them, either...'' He paused, straightening, the moment of thoughtfulness passed. ''And this meat is horrid.''

''What?'' Bergil, who had been unusually quiet, now sat up in anger, his stupor broken. ''How dare you? My lady, I will go outside and fight him.''

''Why not?'' Her eyes glinted. ''He is not to be harmed, but a black eye might teach him a lesson.'' She glanced at Storm, who was eyeing Bergil with dislike. ''You accept his challenge?''

''I do not brawl with common children.''

''My father is a captain.'' Bergil pointed out, proudly. ''And I will not let this insult go unpunished. Fight me, or you are nothing but a coward.''

''Fine!''

Eowyn followed them outside. Hardly had they reached the bottom of the stairs when they began to wrestle, Storm proving to be far more vicious than Bergil expected. He kicked below the belt, butted with his head, jabbed at the eyes. Bergil was strong and fast,though. Eowyn pulled them apart quickly, and Huor ran to his friend, who shook him off, clearly wishing to resume the match.

''I can win!''

''Bruises and scrapes are one thing, losing an eye another.'' And she did not want him bitten, either, and she thought about what to say. ''But if he has to cheat, he is the loser anyway.''

Bergil smirked, and Storm scowled.

Eowyn decided to take them back to the Citadel. As they headed toward the great gates, she thought that the ride had not been entirely fruitless. The girl had opened up a little. She was young enough that an over active imagination was only to be expected, though most maids her age should be dreaming of...what, exactly? Not ghosts, anyway.

Eowyn realized, almost with surprise, that when she was at River's age, she had probably been trying to fight Eomer with sticks. But at least her head had not been filled with stories of flesh eating mists and who knew what else. The men of Dunland had been told by Saruman that the Rohirrim burned captives alive,before the battle at Helm's Deep.

''You know, even in Rohan we can show mercy.'' She told the children as they dismounted outside the gates. ''The men of Dunland attacked us in Helm's Deep, and many of them gave themselves up. They had to rebuild the wall, but after that they were sent home. And the Easterling's who surrendered outside the Black Gate, they were spared.''

''Lucky them.'' Storm spat, irritably.

Both the children were quiet the rest of the way, and had gone into their home before Faramir came out from the Citadel, his eyes slightly heavy with tiredness.

''How was your day?'' He kissed her on the cheek.

''Interesting, at least.'' She shrugged, and told him what had happened throughout the day. ''You might be right. If they can open up more, even a little, maybe they can be helped. Beating them will not do that. Maybe patience is the answer. I think Bergil might be good company for him.''

''Because they fought?'' Faramir raised an eyebrow. ''Well, he did get young Storm to do what he wanted. That is some achievement. Maybe he can come to the city for a few hours. I am sorry I scare River, though.'' he smiled. ''It is not even as if I am carrying a sword or wearing armour. She was not scared of you?''

''No, but she might not believe that I fought in battles. Storm certainly did not. I would not worry about it too much, though. She knows her fears are not all reasonable.''

''That is important.'' The Steward nodded. ''I will talk to Beregond tomorrow, and see what he can do about his son.''

''I only hope he does not think Bergil is being punished. Bergil might have been willing to stay in a burning city, but being a companion to Storm of Harad goes beyond the call of duty.''

Faramir laughed, and they went into the Citadel.

 **Will probably have to take a break. Running out of ideas.**


End file.
